


Mr. Spider Comes Calling

by Jain



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Horror, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Trick or Treat Exchange, Trick or Treat: Challenge Yourself, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-29 21:45:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16272959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/pseuds/Jain
Summary: Some webs stretch miles. And years.





	Mr. Spider Comes Calling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lontradiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lontradiction/gifts).



> Many thanks to cher for the beta.

There were flowers on Jon's table.

He almost didn't notice them, despite the fact that the last time he'd had flowers in his flat was never. He'd woken in a hospital room the previous day surrounded by the things, though: most of them from Martin, a few from various other people who worked at the Institute, a very nice bunch of daffodils from Georgie, and a somehow obnoxious bunch of chrysanthemums from Elias.

So the flowers on his dining table weren't particularly noteworthy. They'd probably been left there yesterday by Martin, who'd volunteered to fetch a change of clothes and Jon's spare glasses, so that Jon could check himself out of the hospital with a measure of dignity.

Still, there was something about them that caught his eye, and he went over to take a closer look. The flowers became clearer as he approached the table. (His spare glasses were an old prescription.) Bluebells, obscenely large and faded almost to white.

Jon's heart started hammering in his chest. He had to leave, had to go to...the Institute, to Georgie's, hell, even to Martin's. Anywhere that might be safe. But he couldn't.

He needed to look. He needed to know.

He felt trapped, _caught_ , and perhaps the worst thing was, he wasn't entirely certain which malevolent force was holding him hostage this time. Whether he was stuck in the Web and unable to break free, or whether he was acting in service of the Eye and compelled to learn and catalogue and observe, no matter that his hands were shaking and fuzzy blackish red spots kept obscuring his vision.

Or perhaps he was mistaken. The bluebells might be no more than what they'd first seemed, no matter how disconcertingly familiar they looked. How _wrong_ they looked. The only way to find out was for him to look closer.

So he scanned the room, searching for anything else out of place. The flat was open plan, so everything from kitchen to dining area to living room was available to his gaze...and it all looked perfectly normal. A little cleaner than usual--that had to be Martin's doing--but otherwise just as it always was. There weren't any spider webs to be seen; he walked the perimeter of the room to be sure. He listened for the buzzing of flies, but there were none.

He needed to check the other rooms. He needed to get out of his flat. He walked across the living room and opened the bathroom door.

There was a spider web in one of the corners. It was small, and he couldn't see the spider anywhere, though perhaps there _was_ one, hidden from him by the insufficient strength of his glasses. He backed away carefully. Under ordinary circumstances, he'd be reaching for the hoover right now. But these weren't ordinary circumstances, and he didn't know if removing the spider web would make things better or far, far worse.

Besides, the open bedroom door was drawing him now with greater and greater insistence, though he still couldn't tell if the tug he felt was a tightening line of silk or a compulsion to observe or just his own need to know. He went to the doorway and peered in.

His attention was drawn almost instantly to the nearby bedside table. On it lay an open cardboard box, and inside was a slice of cake, cartoonishly large and a bilious shade of pale green. That was all, and that was more than enough. He noted distantly that there was nothing else unusual about the room, his eyes darting everywhere in the few seconds before he turned to finally, _finally_ run.

He felt dizzy, short of breath, weak and small and terrified, but he couldn't let himself give into childish helplessness right now, he had to run, to escape his suddenly sinister flat, to find somewhere safe before--

There came a knock on the door.


End file.
